[closed] tiptoe through the tulips

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict, Wren, James, Simon, Hanzo, some new friends
WHAT: The time has finally come to return Benedict to his people. Something maybe goes a little bit wrong.
WHEN: Early Bloomingtide
WHERE: southern Tevinter
NOTES: Warnings for violence.

Three Templars, a magister's son, and a Shimada cross the border from Hasmal to the Tevinter Imperium: it sounds like a joke, and in many ways it probably is, but to Benedict it just seems like overkill.
His mother requested the Templars, ostensibly for protection against the southern apostates driven mad by their little war; Hanzo, a man whose name he recognizes but is too young to properly remember, presumably tagged along for the practical benefits of visiting Minrathous without the Inquisition's grandeur.

Magister Calpurnia Artemaeus awaits them at the family home, and all they have to do is get there. Surely the nightmare will soon be over.

Comments

[judgemewhole]

James, alas, is so focused on the rogue that he doesn't see the mage. However as much as he might be stunned, he is still a Templar, and when you are a Templar you at least know how to shout out a Prayer to Dispel Magic, as best you can. He's on his knees, and while his shield is too far away, he can at least try to slash at his attackers before they overwhelm him, or at least land a solid, armored punch on one of the bastards before they have him tied again.

[limier]

Boot finds her wrist, and the snarl curling her lips chokes into an abrupt warble of pain. Her free arm strains up, steel claws scrabbling for purchase in the wound, a handhold by which to drag the woman down.

Her palm closes about calf only a moment before the second heel connects with her spine. A flash of blood from the corner of her eye (Simon? Momentum of a fucking druffalo) — and pinned at three points (four) — there’s only so much that struggling does.

Norrington flounders. The Vint, spent. Fear rises, meets and mingles with a stomach sunk low.

Someone's really going to have to kill Artemaeus.

[paladingus]

Simon might volunteer enthusiastically for that duty if he ever gets the chance, but Benedict is the last thing on his mind right now. One arrow can be brushed off for a moment in the red haze of combat, but two is too much to demand that his body bear, and it slams just above his knee--another too-large target even through the skirts, practically beckoning--to bring him crashing to the ground.

His reach isn't long enough to exact revenge from there. He clutches his sword with futile determination, but nobody's stupid enough to allow him to use it.